


le petit bébé

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Series: the playwright and his muse [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the last three years, when the trees begin to bloom and the air in the city grows too hot and too humid to be borne, the Pond-Smith household packs up their belongings and makes the journey into the countryside and the little cottage that waits patiently through the winter for their return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	le petit bébé

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting around in my documents folder for a while and Bree told me it would be a shame not to post it since it's already finished. A quick tumblr consensus confirmed her opinion so here we are:) Hope you like it!

 

For the last three years, when the trees begin to bloom and the air in the city grows too hot and too humid to be borne, the Pond-Smith household packs up their belongings and makes the journey into the countryside and the little cottage that waits patiently through the winter for their return.

 

The moment they arrive, Melody nearly skips to the door, bonnet hanging around her neck and bouncing against her back as she goes. Following her out of the carriage at a much more sedate pace, John watches her go with a little smile. He’s begun to look forward to the summer months almost as much as his wife – the solitude is exquisite for writing, the lack of social engagements freeing but more than that, it gives him a chance to be alone with Melody in a way life in London simply doesn’t allow often. Every year, for a few months, it feels like their honeymoon all over again.

 

Ducking into the house, John is immediately assaulted with the citrus scent he has long come to associate with his wife and his muse – the same scent that permeates the house in London too. They haven’t been to the cottage since last summer and he can’t begin to fathom why the scent lingers but it’s become the scent of home to him. He breathes it in, crossing the foyer, and finds Melody following the servants about.

 

She helps them open windows and unpack boxes and pull the sheets from the furniture. The servants look terribly nervous, as they always do when the mistress of the house tries to do their work for them. Always happier with a task to do, Melody is oblivious to their anxiety. John clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe and smirking when she looks up.

 

“Are you on my payroll, dear?”

 

Melody hands the dusty sheet to a passing maid and smiles, abandoning the servants to approach him. “If I was, my love, it would be quite illegal.” She latches onto the lapels of his coat as he rolls his eyes, swaying into him. He bends his head the way he knows she wants, allowing her to brush her nose against his. “Considering the nature of my services.”

 

He snorts but his arms wrap around her waist, drawing her close. “You’re scandalizing the servants.”

 

Melody tosses her curls, smile widening, and ignores the bustle of activity going on around them, the determined silence of men and women who long ago learned to look as if the master and mistress of the house were not present at all. “They’ve heard much worse.”

 

“Unfortunately for them,” he mutters, letting his mouth brush her ear. “Leave them be. The sooner you’re out of their way, the sooner they’ll finish and bugger off.”

 

When John first bought her the cottage, Melody had insisted that when they stayed there, she didn’t wish for an entire staff of maids and butlers to follow them into the countryside. So the servants make the journey to ready the cottage before returning to the city and maintaining the house there. Only Clara is the exception to the rule. She’ll stay the whole summer, aside from the occasional trip back to London to see her beau – Rupert or Danny or something. John hadn’t been listening.

 

Melody looks up at him now, bristling. “I want to help -”

 

“They don’t like it when you help. I don’t like it when you help either.” He determinedly ignores her pout, watching her expectantly until she sighs and threads her arm through his, allowing him to lead her away and back outside. “We’ll check on the horses. Will that satisfy you?”

 

She glares at his exasperated tone but nods once primly. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes have brightened or the smile that she does her very best not to let him see. He chooses not to mention it for the sake of not bickering away the afternoon. As much as she had protested when he bought horses for the stables, she spends most of her time outside with them. Most evenings when she comes into the house and finds him writing in his study, she smells entirely of horse. Last summer it had inspired a charming play about a frolicking woodland tribe and their wild reigning queen.

 

As they stroll through the grass and toward the stables, where the stable hand is already up and hard at work, Melody glances around the vast property with a smile. “What a grand place to spend the first few months of life. I’m very nearly jealous of my own grandchild. Benjamin and I could hardly afford to give Amy anything like this. ”

 

John frowns, roughly pushing away thoughts of that life. It always makes his stomach ache when he thinks of her in poverty, makes him want to buy her things, makes him want to find the biggest, finest meal he can and watch her eat every bite of it. “Should she be traveling in her condition?”

 

“Her condition?” Melody sounds distracted, peering at the stables as they approach, mouth already curling up at the sight of her favorite mare.

 

John huffs. “Well, isn’t she about to pop?”

 

She pauses at that, turning to raise an eyebrow at him. “Charming, sweetie. And it’s far better to travel now than to travel with a newborn. I want her here for the summer, where I can look after her and more importantly, spoil my grandchild.”

 

He harrumphs, releasing her arm before she drags him with her through the muck to greet her horse. Watching from a safe, clean distance, he says, “I thought you were against spoiling.”

 

Sniffing, Melody presses a hand to the muzzle of Buttercup and glances over her shoulder at him with a coy smile. “You’ve ruined all of my moral compunctions, my love.”

 

“Finally,” he mutters, smirking.

 

“It only took three years of marriage. Quite a record.”

 

He shakes his head. “I was aiming for two.”

 

“Pity.” Melody gives her horse one last fond pat and turns to make her way back to his side, skirts gathered in hand to save them from the mud. “Do you think they’ll arrive before dinner?”

 

“Why? Bored of my charming company already?”

 

John takes her arm and helps her across the muck, inwardly sighing at the state of her slippers. She’ll notice at some point, he knows, and proceed to be utterly appalled at her own carelessness, at which point he’ll offer to buy new ones and she will refuse. He’ll order them anyway and have them sent, listen to her complain about his frivolity, and then accept her generous kiss in thanks. By now, the whole affair has become a summer ritual. He would remind her to be careful of the mud if he didn’t so enjoy that thank you kiss.

 

Melody nudges him fondly, linking their fingers as they trek through the long grass. Her skirts swish pleasantly as they brush against the overgrown weeds and he turns his head, letting her hair tickle his jaw. “As a matter of fact, I would quite like an evening alone with my grumpy bugger.”

 

Pleased but unwilling to show it just yet, John says, “Not missing our standing weekly invitation to Mr. Harkness’ dinners?”

 

“Don’t you mean his weekly orgies?” Melody scoffs, glancing away.

 

John coughs, brows raised in surprise. “Something you’re not telling me, dear?”

 

“You must know that’s why he tries to get us to stay for brandy every Friday,” she says scornfully. “It’s some sort of code – Clara swears by it. Apparently he has _brandy_ with Lord Byron every time the odious man is in town. Were you aware Mr. Wilde joins them?”

 

“Bloody hell, _stop_.” The last thing he wants to think about is that lout Jack Harkness having anything with his archrival and sometimes friend. Grimacing, John attempts to dislodge the imagery with a shake of his head.  “Maids. Bloody gossips, the lot of them.”

 

Looking amused now, Melody leans her head on his shoulder and he’s relieved to pass the rest of the journey back to the house in the peaceful silence they’ve cultivated since the moment they met. It’s a quiet that is broken when they finally reach their destination, rounding the front of the house and finding Rory climbing out of a carriage, helping his wife down with one hand in hers and the other around her expanded waistline.

 

John watches their struggle with a smirk but keeps any pithy remarks to himself – since the beginning of her eighth month, Amy has become increasingly volatile whenever he comments on her… vastness. At the moment, she looks big enough to cause considerable damage to his person.

 

Listening to them bicker, Melody sighs, smiling a little. “Well, so much for a quiet evening alone.” She squeezes his hand, offering him a regretful look, and steps toward her children with wide smile. “Amy, darling, let me look at you.”

 

They saw each other mere days ago but John knows better than to mention it. Amy and Melody have a strange sort of relationship – they bicker nearly constantly when they’re together but a week apart and they act as though they’ve been separated by months and continents. He’ll never understand women.

 

Hands in his pockets, John approaches the carriage, carefully avoiding Melody and Amy huddled together, Melody’s hands on her daughter’s rounded belly. He stands next to Rory, observing the young man tugging Amy’s trunk from storage. “Doctor Pond,” he says in greeting.

 

Rory looks torn between elation at his relatively new title and despair that it isn’t quite right. “Doctor _Williams_ ,” he mutters, lips quirking into a little smile. “And hello Granddad.”

 

John huffs, a little flutter of panic blooming in his chest the way it always does when anyone mentions what exactly he might be to the little demon Amy currently houses. He clears his throat gruffly and turns away, retreating to the womenfolk, much to Rory’s amusement.

 

Amy glances up when he appears at her side, lips curling into a wry grin. “Hello, step-papa.” Her eyes narrow like she’s waiting him to say something like _you look as though you’ve swallowed the loch ness monster_. It’s become a bit of a game between them. He finds increasingly creative ways to describe her stomach and she finds inventive terms for his mop of gray curls.

 

He only raises a brow at her, gesturing hesitantly to her midsection. “When is that thing planning to come out?”

 

Amy smoothes a hand over her stomach, grinning. “Any time now.”

 

John blinks. “Pardon?”

 

Exchanging an amused glance with her daughter, Melody supplies, “She’s in labor.”

 

Startled, John takes a step back and squints at her, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. She’s not screaming bloody murder.”

 

“I’m not having a contraction, idiot.” Amy rolls her eyes and he frowns. “Rory says I’ve still got hours yet.”

 

“Well, I’m just glad you made it here first.” Melody tuts, taking her daughter’s arm to lead her into the house. “Imagine, having the poor mite in a carriage. You know, I almost had _you_ in a carriage. Your father was positively panicked, bless. John, help Rory with those – John?”

 

He doesn’t answer, overcome by the reality of the situation. The thing that has been baking in Amy’s belly for the past nine months is going to come out. Tonight, probably. In their little cottage. There is going to be a wee tiny person living here soon, bloody and squalling and wrinkled. A wee tiny, fragile person. _Amy’s_ wee tiny fragile person – that she will bring into the world, undoubtedly screaming and swearing all the while, right _here_. He swallows.

 

Melody presses a gentle hand to his cheek, peering into his eyes with concern. “John? What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet, my love.”

 

He blinks at her, struggling to form words in his dry mouth. He wants to tell her he’s perfectly fine, to brush aside her concern with a scowl and stomp into the house, to sequester himself in his study until the whole messy business is over with. He feels like he might be sick.

 

Amy snorts. “I think I’ve traumatized him.”

 

His wife strokes a hand over his cheek and he sees understanding dawn in her eyes, watching with horror as she suddenly grins to herself. “Queasy stomach, sweetie?”

 

He scowls.

 

Melody laughs brightly, taking his arm and leaning into his side. “Rory, help Amy into the house. Clara should have her room all ready. I’ll stay out here with John for a while.” She bites back another giggle, glancing up at him fondly. “I think he needs some air.”

 

Amy brushes away Rory’s helpful arm with fond exasperation. “I’m fine, numpty. I can walk yet. Come on, let’s get inside before I have another contraction and make him cry.”

 

Patting his chest when he growls under his breath, Melody takes his face in her hands and waits for him to focus on her. “Look at me, not her. Breathe, you big idiot.”

 

“I’m fine,” he finally manages, and the words come out more harshly than he’d intended. He latches onto her wrists to soften them, thumbs stroking over her skin. “Stop coddling me. I’m not a damned child.”

 

“No,” she says, still sounding far too cheerful. “Only frightened to death of them.”

 

“I am not frightened of children,” he snaps, still keeping his gaze focused on her and not the couple making their way into the house. “I’m… unsettled by the horror of birth happening anywhere near me. It’s different.”

 

Melody hums, eyes twinkling, and says, “It isn’t as if you’ll be in the room.”

 

He scowls. “The visuals are enough.”

 

“My poor love,” she murmurs, and he can tell she’s still struggling not to laugh at him. “That’s the trouble with being a writer, I suppose. That vivid imagination can be your worst enemy.”

 

Giving up on convincing her he’s perfectly fine damn it, John presses his face into her hair and sighs. “Is the bar car stocked yet?”

 

She laughs, humming in answer. “I believe there’s a bottle with your name on it.”

 

John sags against her gratefully. He really, really loves his little muse.

 

-

 

The screaming began hours ago and it hasn’t really stopped since.

 

After pushing a drink into his hand and pressing a kiss to his cheek, Melody had left him in the parlor and retreated to Amy’s side. It wasn’t long before Clara had wandered into the room, a book tucked under her arm, and had settled herself into an armchair in the corner. He has a feeling Melody had sent her to keep him company and smiled to himself, bizarrely grateful his wife hadn’t wanted to leave him on his own. At least with Clara in the room, he has someone to complain to. John is always at his most comfortable when he can complain. It’s one of the reasons he had fallen in love with Melody – she understands and encourages his need to bicker.

 

The shouting coming from upstairs is unintelligible but as much as John tries to put it out of his mind and focus on finishing the scene of his newest project, he simply cannot. The grisly images are making him feel ill and the sound of someone in pain is enough to put him on edge but this is Amy. Melody’s daughter. The girl who delights in verbally sparring with him but who would gladly eviscerate him if he ever treated her mother with anything but earnest love. Amy the ginger terror he has grown as fond of as his own daughter if he’d ever had one. Hearing Amy in pain is unbearable. He wonders idly how Melody is handling it but is far too cowardly to venture upstairs and check on her.

 

Clara looks up from the letter she’s currently penning to Rupert or Danny or perhaps both. “I’m sure she’s fine. Besides, Melody has been through this before.”

 

John shudders. “Don’t remind me.”

 

If Amy – the one he fondly calls a right pain in his arse – going through this can make him this ill, he couldn’t begin to imagine how he would have coped with Melody being the one upstairs. Thank fuck he hadn’t been around for that. He pitied poor Benjamin.

 

Clara snorts softly.

 

He glances up, startled. “How much of that did I say out loud?”

 

She purses her lips secretively and goes back to her letter. She makes him wait, scratching out a few more lines of undoubtedly terrible poetic descriptions of her longing for whichever beau she’s writing to, before she finally sets aside her quill pen and gives him her attention. “Poor Benjamin would be old hat at this by now. Probably would have been upstairs – lighting cigars and pacing in the hallway like a proud granddad.” Clara smiles to herself. “I wonder what he was like?”

 

“Ridiculous, apparently,” John says dismissively, frowning into the distance.

 

Clara shrugs. “Well, it appears your wife has a type.”

 

“Sod off.”

 

“Could do,” she says brightly. “But I’ve been ordered to babysit you and make sure you don’t drown your anxiety in whiskey.”

 

“I do believe you have me confused with the mistress of the house.” He scribbles a note in his notebook with a bit more force than necessary and very nearly tears the page. “Do you think she misses him?”

 

Clara frowns. “Who?”

 

“Amy,” he explains tersely. “Do you think she misses him?”

 

“Her father? Of course she does.” The girl pauses, studying him with those wide eyes and probably seeing far more than he would like. John shifts uneasily, glancing away. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t glad her baby is going to have you for a granddad, you know.”

 

He grunts, eyes on his notebook.

 

Clara sighs. “John -”

 

“Shh.” He lifts his head, staring at the ceiling. “Do you hear that?”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

The screaming has stopped.

 

Soft footsteps on the stairs have him leaping to his feet and Clara follows suit, hovering at the writing desk in the corner and staring at the doorway. They both wait, holding their breath, until Melody appears, her face flushed. She wipes her hands on a bloody cloth and John doesn’t have time to feel queasy all over again before she pins him in place with her bright gaze and beams. “It’s a boy.”

 

John feels his breath leave him in a heavy, relieved sigh and laughs, his lips curling into a smile. He forces his shaky legs to move, crossing the room and gathering Melody into his arms. “Everything is -”

 

“Fine.” She nods hurriedly, laughing as she pulls back to look up at him. “Amy did beautifully and Rory didn’t falter once. Oh John, you should see the baby – he’s beautiful.” Her eyes water and she blinks quickly, her smile never wavering. “I have a grandson.”

 

He tangles his hands in her hair, kissing her head. Melody burrows into his embrace, pressing her face into his neck, and John rocks her softly in place, feeling her tremble against him. She’d held up just fine for her daughter but here, with his arms around her, she learned long ago she doesn’t have to be quite so brave.

 

“Well?” He asks gruffly, kissing her temple. “What do we call the lad?”

 

Melody smiles against his throat, arms winding loosely around his waist, leaning her weight into John and trusting him implicitly to hold her steady. “Benjamin.”

 

Nodding once stiffly, John keeps his arms around his wife and ignores Clara’s knowing gaze. He buries his face against Melody’s hair and says nothing, feeling his stomach drop all the way into his feet.

 

-

 

In the weeks that follow, everyone in the cottage becomes enamored with the wee tyke – including John. Having never been particularly interested in children nor spent any time with them in the past, it surprises him at first just how much he enjoys having the lad about. At the moment he doesn’t do much but cry and sleep and he looks a bit like a wrinkled ginger old man but Melody assures him he’ll get more exciting and better looking as the months pass.

 

In any case, John takes great amusement in watching the lad make faces and yank on Rory’s nose. He likes the way Amy and her baby have matching hair. He likes how Clara turns from a mouthy nuisance into a puddle of goo in the boy’s presence. But most of all, John likes the sight of Melody holding him. He likes watching her press her crinkled nose to the baby’s and laugh, he likes watching her sway with him in front of the window at dawn, humming a lullaby. He likes the way she looks with a child and feels an odd, unexplainable ache in his chest whenever he witnesses it.

 

The only time John doesn’t like having a tyke about the house is when the little demon keeps the entire family up with its incessant crying in the night. He can’t get a bit of sleep and Melody always slips from bed to help Amy with him so John not only loses sleep but cannot have his wife either. Therefore he faces those mornings with neither the energy nor the inspiration to write a damn thing.

 

Unfortunately, this morning is just such a day.

 

Head in his hands, John observes the various states of exhaustion around the breakfast table from between his fingers, almost impressed something so small could cause so much misery. Half asleep in his porridge, Rory doesn’t look close to ready for the patients waiting for him in town today and Clara doesn’t seem to even care that she’s getting her hair in her tea. Holding her peacefully sleeping baby against her chest, Amy is pale and droopy-eyed, staring blankly at her toast. The only one not suffering is Melody, who bustles about the kitchen with lightness in her footsteps.

 

John glares at her. It’s been _years_ since she spent her days on little sleep and even less food - why isn’t she as miserable as the rest of them? Not that he wants her to be. He likes his little muse well rested and in good humor. It just isn’t fair.

 

Melody carries a cup of tea to the table and sets it down in front of him, her fingers brushing softly across the back of his neck as she moves away again. John stifles a wave of longing and decides with a sigh to focus his ire elsewhere. Amy’s little sprog is resting up now, preparing for another night of squalling, no doubt. John eyes the pudgy little fist peeking out from top of his blanket – Melody had knitted the thing for him the moment Amy discovered she was carrying the wee leech – and feels a strange mix of fondness and contempt. Funny that something so small can incite such emotion.

 

“So,” Melody chirps, dropping a plate of sausage on the table with a clatter. Everyone flinches, suddenly wide awake. She smiles, settling into a chair next to John. “What does everyone have planned for the day? I thought I might get a jump on sewing those costumes for the play.”

 

Clara blinks sluggishly at her untouched food and says, “I think I’ll tell you I’m cleaning the library and go find a corner of it to sleep in.”

 

Melody purses her lips against an amused smile and nods. “Very sensible, dear. Rory? Will you be staying in town for the week?”

 

“Hmm?” Rory stares at her for a moment, as if his brain needs the extra time to process words. “Oh, yes. I’ll send word if I have to stay longer.” He turns to Amy. “Are you sure you’ll be alright while I’m gone?”

 

Amy manages a tired smile, nodding. “Course, numpty. Mum’s here – what do I need you for?”

 

John scowls into his tea. She’s his wife and his muse and Amy’s son has been taking up far too much of her time. Around a sip of tea, he grumbles aloud, “Lethbridge expects those pages tomorrow and I haven’t written a bloody thing since your spawn came into the world.” He lifts a brow at her. “Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

 

Amy glares wordlessly at him. Lately she’s been too tired to even properly insult him. John is starting to miss it.

 

“You’ll write today,” Melody says with a fond, stern glance. He has no idea how she does that. Her hand settles on his thigh beneath the table, a soothing touch that quells his agitation instantly. “I’ll look after Benjamin and Amy is going back to bed to get some sleep. You’ll have some quiet to work.”

 

Amy glances up at her mother like she cannot decide if she should refuse or weep with relief. “What? No, you didn’t sleep either -”

 

“I slept plenty,” Melody interrupts smoothly, elbowing John when he scoffs. “You need your rest, darling. Go back to bed and let me spoil my grandson.”

 

Wavering, Amy looks down at her sleeping baby and asks hopefully, “You really don’t mind?”

 

John minds quite a lot but Melody shakes her head, already reaching for the lad. Once he’s safely nestled in her arms, Amy kisses Rory goodbye and drags herself upstairs and back to bed. Rory escapes only a few minutes later with one last fond glance at his son, promising to write once he’s safely returned to London.

 

Clara has fallen asleep at the table, mouth hanging open and light snores escaping, the ends of her hair soaking in her tea. John makes a mental note to include the scene in his play somehow, smirking to himself.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Melody murmurs, without even looking at him. “She’ll kill you. And I rather like having you around, my love.”

 

He scowls.

 

She sips her tea, besotted eyes on her grandson. “You know,” she says softly, smiling, “Your grandfather used to stick out his bottom lip just like that when he wasn’t getting his way. You’re going to be irresistible, aren’t you, darling?”

 

Pushing away his breakfast, John stands abruptly, scraping his chair across the floor and waking Clara. Even the tyke stirs a bit in Melody’s arms. “I’m going to write,” he says, avoiding Melody’s puzzled gaze. “If I don’t join you for tea time, don’t bother interrupting me.”

 

“You don’t want my company?”

 

John freezes in the doorway, shoulders sagging as he sighs. He turns his head, glancing over his shoulder and staring at the sight of her at the breakfast table, the baby slumbering away in her arms. He softens, nodding once. “Always, muse. But only if you leave the whelp with Clara.”

 

She smiles. “Until teatime then.”

 

John retreats upstairs to his study, shutting the door behind him, and doesn’t breathe properly again until he’s safely behind his desk – far from his wife and the boy with the second-hand name. He takes up his quill pen and tries to write, already looking forward to teatime.

 

-

 

Rory arrives just in time for lunch nearly two weeks later and Melody insists on a picnic in the garden, helping Clara pack food and delicate china into a massive hamper. Between her bright grin and the memory of afternoons spent in the park before they married – when she was his little muse but nothing else, reading aloud from the pages of his play while Amy and Rory bickered over sandwiches – John is quite powerless to voice a single complaint.

 

The garden is quite a sight this time of year, splashes of color everywhere. Melody had planted wildflowers their first summer here and they’ve multiplied since then, vibrant blues and oranges and reds mingling with softer yellows and lilacs. John stares at his wife in the midst of it all and decides his new female lead should wear flowers in her hair. He makes a mental note to make the revision and swiftly looks away before Amy or Clara catches him staring.

 

His eyes land instead on the baby sprawled in the middle of the blanket, his kicking feet stretched toward the afternoon sun. He squints against the bright light and John frowns, moving a little closer to his wife and subsequently blocking the sun from the lad’s eyes. He gurgles a pleased noise and flails out a hand, grasping ineffectually at the blanket beneath him.

 

Melody leans her head on his shoulder and John turns away from the baby to give her his attention. She pushes a small plate of biscuits into his hand and says proudly, “Handsome fellow, isn’t he?”

 

He grunts, taking a vicious bite of a biscuit. “I suppose, for a chubby little gnome with a face that’s mostly chin.”

 

Amy looks up from her tea with a scowl. “Oi, we don’t mock your face. And there is plenty about it to mock.”

 

John lifts an eyebrow at her, inexplicably pleased to have gained her ire. “Feeling better then?”

 

Amy huffs at him but he can see the smile she tries to stifle. “Bugger off.” She returns her attention to her baby, brushing a light fingertip across his brow. Her expression softens and she says, “He’s got dad’s eyebrows.”

 

Melody laughs softly. “Don’t you mean lack of them?”

 

Stuffing another biscuit into his mouth, John chews with vigor. Without meaning to, he moves out of the sun and away from Melody, and the light hits the baby right in the eyes. He begins to fuss almost instantly, face crunched up and legs kicking madly. Melody swoops in with a little cooing noise, scooping the boy up and into her arms. He rests his head in the crook of her neck and stares curiously at John, his little brow furrowed. John resists the sudden childish urge to stick out his tongue, staring balefully back at the lad.

 

Humming softly, Melody bounces him a little and looks at her daughter. “Your father used to sing this song to get you to sleep, do you remember?”

 

“How could I forget?” Amy laughs, finishing her biscuit and dusting off her fingers. “He couldn’t carry a tune.”

 

“He wasn’t bad!” Melody grins, ducking her head to brush her lips across the top of the baby’s head. “Well, he tried anyway. It was sweet.”

 

“It was,” Amy agrees, her smile turning a little watery.

 

John looks away, staring at his lap with a frown.

 

Patting his stomach, Rory puts his empty plate onto the stack of them in the middle of the blanket and says, “I could do with a nap.”

 

Amy pouts. “You promised me a game of croquet!”

 

“But -”

 

“Or are you afraid I’m going to kick your arse?”

 

“I’m afraid you’re going to swing too hard and hit me with your mallet like last time,” Rory grumbles, and rubs at his head at the memory. “I don’t want to be on your team.”

 

“I’ll be on your team,” Clara says. “John can have Amy.”

 

Glancing up, startled, John says, “Well I don’t want her either! Besides, where would that leave Melody?”

 

Laughing at her daughter’s scowl, Melody smoothes a hand down his back and kisses his shoulder. “I’ll be on Amy’s team, sweetie. You can play with Rory and Clara.” She glances at her children. “Can you manage to set up the game while I help Clara clean up?”

 

They regard each other with playfully suspicious glares and nod once. “Probably.”

 

“Good.” She turns to John, shifting the baby in her arms and to his utter horror, holding the tyke out to him. “Take him while I help Clara, would you?”

 

Looking up with sudden interest, Clara smirks at him, eyes gleaming. “Yeah John, make yourself useful and hold Benjamin.”

 

Of course she knows. Knows bloody everyone’s business, the wench. Snapping his mouth shut with a glare, John looks anywhere but at the baby currently in his face. He clears his throat. “I’ve just remembered I’ve got some notes to make,” he says, getting to his feet. “And I’ve a letter to write to Lethbridge. I’ll see you at dinner.”

 

Settling the baby back in her lap, Melody frowns up at him. “You don’t want to play?”

 

Hating how disappointed she looks but knowing he has to get away now or risk a lapful of the littlest Pond, he shakes his head vehemently and says, “Perhaps next time, dear.”

 

He makes his escape back into the house before she or anyone else can protest. Heart pounding a little erratically in his chest, he climbs the stairs two at a time and shuts himself away in his study, breathing out a sigh of relief. Slipping out of his jacket, he drapes it over an armchair and stalks over to the bar car in the corner, pouring himself a brandy and taking comfort in the familiar clinking together of glass bottles and decanters. He takes a sip from his glass, breathes out through his nose, and drops his shoulders wearily.

 

From here, he can’t hear the jubilant game in the garden or hear the lad’s happy gurgles. He certainly can’t hear fond remembrances of Benjamin. Perhaps he’ll actually manage to get a bit of writing done today.

 

Carrying his brandy with him, he rounds his desk and sinks into the chair behind it. A fresh sheet of parchment awaits him and he feels a reluctant smile curling his mouth at the sight. In here, there is nothing to fret about but the words. He picks up his quill pen and presses it to the page.

 

No sooner does he begin than the door to his study bursts open and he curses inwardly for not remembering to lock the damn thing. He glances up with a scowl, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue that dies the moment he sees Melody march into the room. She carries the wee one in her arms, settling him on her hip as she shuts the door firmly behind her, turning the lock.

 

John sits up straight, suddenly wary. “Not that I don’t enjoy an afternoon interlude, dear, but don’t you think the lad is a wee bit young to learn about the birds and the bees?”

 

Melody doesn’t smile and it only puts him further on edge. He grips his pen, heart picking up speed as she approaches his desk and stands in front of him, her eyes narrowed and searching his face. He resists the urge to squirm like a naughty child. Finally, she speaks and her voice is conspicuously absent of emotion. “It’s been nearly two months and I don’t believe I’ve heard you call Benjamin by his name once. It’s always _Amy’s spawn_ or _ginger gnome_ or _the wee one_ -” She makes a face, doing a remarkable impression of his accent that makes him flinch. “Or anything else that pops into that ridiculous head. But not his name.”

 

Caught, John lowers his gaze to the pen in his hand and frowns when he notices how white his knuckles are around it. He releases it before he snaps it, dropping it back onto his desk.

 

“And,” Melody continues softly, “I haven’t seen you hold your grandchild once, John.”

 

He grimaces. “Is he though?”

 

“Is he what?”

 

“My grandchild. I’m not -” He trails off with a sigh, looking up at his wife. She stares at him, brow furrowed. “He already has a grandfather. His namesake.”

 

Melody stiffens, her lips thinning into an angry line. “Please tell me you are not jealous of a dead man.”

 

He recoils, holding up his hands with a scowl. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. He was here first, for god’s sake. And he made you happy. It’s just…” He growls, hating himself. “Did she have to call him Benjamin?”

 

She stares at him. “What on earth is this about, John? I thought it was you not really wanting to be a grandfather but now I – I know you said once that you weren’t one for families but I thought we’d changed your mind. I thought -”

 

“Of course you did,” he snaps, appalled. Trust Melody to take his insecurities and make them into her own. The baby squirms at his sharp tone, fussing in Melody’s arms, and he deflates with a sigh. “It isn’t about that. I… I sodding well like the brat, alright? He’s a little ginger gnome but he’s _our_ ginger gnome.”

 

Eyes bright, Melody purses her lips and turns her face into the baby’s to hide her smile. “What’s the matter then? You avoid him like he carries the plague.”

 

“Could do,” he mutters, eyeing the boy. “Wee sticky germ factories, the lot of them.”

 

Melody glares.

 

John sighs and stares fixedly at his abandoned quill pen. He’s not trying to replace the girl’s father. Amy is far too grown up to need one and he had never wanted children anyway, aside from that twinge he feels in his heart every time Melody holds the boy. “Benjamin is a rather constant reminder, don’t you think?”

 

Shifting the baby in her arms, Melody frowns, looking genuinely puzzled. “A reminder of what, sweetie?”

 

“A reminder of the man who is supposed to be here but isn’t,” he grumbles, feeling rather silly now that he’s finally admitted it. He doesn’t want to be Benjamin and holds no ill will toward the idolized man who came before him, the man who had made Melody so happy and had been such a loving father to Amy but… “You’ll start comparing. And I’m not him.”

 

“Of course you’re not,” she says softly, shaking her head. “I didn’t marry you because you remind me of my late husband, John. I suppose you’re both alike in some ways – funny and kind and rather brilliant. And he had a terrible habit of driving me absolutely mad like you.”

 

John scowls.

 

“But you’re two entirely different men.” Melody perches on the edge of his desk, one hand leaving the baby to brush gently against his. “That’s the way I like it.”

 

He watches her trace her fingertip over the back of his hand, swallowing. “And Amy?”

 

“What about her?”

 

He clears his throat and tries to keep his voice light, unaffected. By the look on Melody’s face when he speaks, he fails entirely. “You don’t think she’ll start to resent me all over again because I’m not her beloved Papa?”

 

She sighs. “You’re an idiot, you know.”

 

“And you’re shite at pep talks,” he grumbles, pulling his hand away.

 

Melody snatches it right back, lacing their fingers together. “You’re not some shoddy replacement for Benjamin, John. We all love you in spite of and because of your differences. You’re our terribly grumpy bugger. You’ve given Amy another wonderful father figure and you’ve given me love when I thought I would never know it again. We expect no more from you than what you’ve already given.” She blinks, misty-eyed, and squeezes his hand with a soft, exasperated smile. “Understand?”

 

He nods once wordlessly, a lump in his throat.

 

Looking satisfied, Melody kisses his palm. “Good.” She hops from his desk and he thinks she’s going to leave him to his writing but she surprises the hell out of him by planting the baby in his lap and walking away. “Keep an eye on him, would you?”

 

He gapes after her, clutching the baby to keep him from sliding off his lap to the floor. “Where are you going? I don’t - _Melody_.” She stops in the doorway and he nearly sags in relief, glaring after her. “Get over here and take this back.”

 

“This?” She smirks. “That’s our grandson you’re talking about, sweetie – not an unwanted cup of tea.”

 

Holding the lad up from beneath his little arms, John thrusts the baby out away from his body and insists again, “Take him.”

 

She shakes her head. “I’ve got a game of croquet to play, my love. And you have two months of bonding to make up for.”

 

“I can’t -” John glances from the baby to her desperately, panic climbing up his throat. “What if he cries?”

 

“Well he just had a feed. Try changing him.”

 

He gapes at her.

 

Melody smirks. “Or he might need a nap. You could always sing.”

 

He makes a strangled noise in his throat. Sing?

 

Grinning to herself, Melody leans in the doorway and sighs. “You know, you look rather delicious holding a baby.”

 

He gulps, glancing down at the boy. When he looks up again, Melody is gone. “Fuck,” he says, and cringes. “Apologies.”

 

The baby – _Benjamin_ – blinks calmly back at him.

 

Hesitantly, John lowers him back to his lap, settling Benjamin on his knees. Right. He can do this. He’s been watching everyone else hold the lad for the last two months. It never looked too difficult. The key seemed to be keeping his head supported. Oh. John scrambles to cradle the back of his little ginger head, satisfied when Benjamin gurgles, that lower lip sticking out in a little pout apparently reminiscent of his namesake.

 

“His eyes and his mouth…” He squints at the lad, tilting his head. “Well, it isn’t so bad. You might even grow into that chin. Let’s just hope you don’t end up with your mother’s temper. Or your father’s nose.” He smirks. “I wouldn’t advise taking after your grandmother either. Piece of work, that one.”

 

Benjamin yawns and John blinks at him in surprise, trying to remember what Melody and Amy do with him when he gets tired. After a moment, he hesitantly lifts the child and cradles him to his chest, flummoxed when the boy automatically tucks his face into the crook of John’s neck and snuffles.

 

“Quite right. I’m the only sane one in this ridiculous family – best you follow my example.” He smoothes a hand over Benjamin’s back, feeling it lift beneath his palm with every small breath. “Except for the career. Don’t ever be a writer if you can help it, lad. It’s rubbish.” Mouth twitching, he leans back in his chair and amends, “Unless you can find your own little muse. Rather worth it then.”

 

Benjamin curls a hand around his lapel and holds on, yawning again.

 

Resigned to looking after the lad for a while longer, John picks up his latest draft with its new edits from Melody and says, “How about a story?”

 

When Melody comes upstairs to look for them after two rounds of croquet, she finds her husband clutching an infant in one hand and a manuscript in the other, both of her boys fast asleep.


End file.
